2010+Required+Pieces


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What Was She Thinking! ** Oh, here we go again. Look at those guys. Got their heads down and they’re already writing. What’m I gonna’ write? (Pencil tapping, legs swinging, foot clunking loudly on a metal chair leg) I’ll sharpen my pencil. That’ll get me some more time to think. (Grind, grind, grind. Not sharp enough, I’ll try the electric sharpener on the other side of the room.) Man! I’m back and the clock still has a big slice of red on it. No way! I gotta’ think of somethin’ to write ‘cause I can’t look busy //that// long. Okay, What did she say? Write about a time when I was scared, really, really scared. Woah! I don’t want ‘em to think I’m a baby so I won’t even tell ‘em ‘bout the time I wet myself in Kindergarten and was too scared to tell the teacher so I just sat there ‘till time to get on the bus. Not that one. No way! Okay, think. (Pencil tapping.) Okay, I got it. ** “When I was lost at walmart” ** There, I’ll show her: “//See I remembered the capital letter!”// (Delivered with a wide jack-o-lantern grin) Back at child’s desk: A complete sentence? Naming part and action part? Hey, I did the capital letter already, but she said I have to make it longer before I add the period, so…here goes. There, I’ll show her. Back at child’s desk: I made it longer! She said it’s not a complete sentence and I need to tell how I felt. That’s it, now I’m done. I’ll show her. Back at child’s desk: Okay wait a minute. She said to take off the “When” this time but it was okay last time? What’s up with that? And, I’m supposed to have more sentences!? Okay, get rid of the “When” and tell more about being lost? ‘k… I did it, I really got it now. I’ll show her. Back at child’s desk: Why didn’t she say that in the first place? Sure I can tell it like a story, just like I told her at her desk. Jus’, gotta’ remember what I said. Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about! She's gotta like this one, but mmm, I don't know, I wonder what she’ll make me fix. The teacher in this story might have wondered, “What’s up with this kid? Why is she so unclear about this assignment? Perhaps, considering that child’s rough draft process, the teacher would recognize the need to clarify the desired end product and re-teach the skills and thinking not yet mastered. If we, as teachers, are unclear about what good writing looks like, or how to empower students to generate it, we are unlikely to mentor them on a clear path to produce high quality work. As first grade level I present many mini-targets in the course of a school year. Initially, I want students to generate a single complete sentence containing an action word and a naming word (verbs and nouns). Therefore, the first instructional rubric I teach and use contains only a row for naming word and a row for action word. After teaching and practicing capital letters and ending punctuation marks, our rubric expands to include all four elements. Once a student is fairly consistent in hitting that target, a new one appears. The second target includes an expanded rubric requiring the use of descriptive language and additional punctuation marks; for example commas in a series. Next, the sequencing target appears and students aim to report a series of observed events in the correct order. When organizing my files of writing activities I found it necessary to create instructional rubrics for each step of the continuum from complete sentences to simple story writing. Each rubric targeted specific skills needed to build the various elements of a story. Focusing lessons and practice first on event sequencing, then on story beginnings, next on character development, then setting and finally problem and solution, students were able to reach the summit of “Write a Story Hill” one step at a time, using tools they collected throughout the journey. Matching each rubric to a series of specific prompts, with a specific purpose on the continuum, I a mapped a series of steps and handrails which my students and I could utilize together to arrive at the summit of “Write a Story Hill.” At any grade level, clarity of the continuum of targets is essential. Without clarity of purpose, we are left asking ourselves, “What Was She Thinking!” The problem with that question lies in its ambiguity. Does it refer to the student or to the teacher in charge? What My Family Taught Me By Adrienne Stenholm Language is freedom. Being able to read and write allows a person to exercise her ability to express, educate, and entertain herself. My family helped foster my freedom through their examples and views. All of my family except for my little brother loved to read and collected books throughout my childhood. My aunt even carried a book around in her purse for when she was stuck in traffic on the city bus. Because of these people in my life, I began collecting and reading a wide range of materials. Some of my fondest early memories revolve around the written word. While other kids’ parents told them bedtime stories, mine read to my little brother and me. Even grandparents, aunts, and uncles got into the act, giving books as Christmas and birthday presents, taking me to the library, and letting me read pretty much anything I wanted. My aunt and I would sit in the stairwell of my grandparents’ house and take turns reading pages of a ghost story out loud to each other. I would play school with Brett, my little brother, and our cat, Spook, reading books to them during “story time.” As I got older, my parents encouraged my interest in more diverse topics. I remember the small-town Granby, Colorado, librarian demanded to ask my dad if it was okay that his fourth grade daughter was checking out //Jaws// and //Pet Sematary//. While these are not your typical //Encyclopedia Brown// or //Nancy Drew// books (yes, I read those, too), the story lines were scary enough to keep my interest during my horror phase. I still recall the bewildered expression on Dad’s face as he told her it was fine…”she can handle it.” I couldn’t read them alone at night by a window, but he was right. By the light of day, I could handle it. Both my parents read in their free time, and we had a wide variety of books in our house. Therefore, I not only had my personal library and public library books, but my parents’ books to peruse, as well. I don’t remember learning to read, but as far back as I remember books have been a large part of my life. Reading came easily to me, and I eagerly drank in the new characters, settings, and storylines, often pretending I was one of the characters and picturing it as a movie in my head. For this reason, I think reading not only gave me freedom but strengthened my imagination, an aspect of my personality that helps me in my life today. When I have a difficult day, I can escape into a book or movie, entirely leaving my problems behind for a little while. Writing also acts as an escape mechanism when the big, bad world brings me down, allowing me to create an alternate reality for a fictional character. In school I found myself in the advanced groups in reading, math, and science (I only figured that out years later). Teachers started bringing more attention to writing, linking the writing process to the projects, journals, and stories assigned in class. My family also encouraged make believe and creativity. Because of our love of movies, my brother and I played //Star Wars//. Aunt Marsha would take Brett, my cousins, and me along while she walked Rah, her Basenji, to the Friends University campus, and we’d play //Peter Pan// and //Raiders of the Lost Ark//. Because of these imaginative activities, I started writing and developing my own writer’s voice at an early age, composing short stories and really bad poetry, and continued through high school. No one really ever saw most of what I wrote, but they didn’t need to. I wrote these stories and poems for me. All of them evolved from reading and imagination, though. I first realized I was a literate person in high school when I could read the assigned work and could understand the story and the topics we discussed in class without outside help. Add to this the fact that I would then go out and search for favorite authors’ books until I either owned or had read the whole collection, and I realized that reading and the written word played a large role in my life. I, of course, blame my parents.
 * Unconscious internal conversation of a six year old yo-yo writer: **// (Yo-yo writer: a young writer who yo-yo’s between their desk and mine a minimum of ten times in a twenty minute first draft session.) //** by Meg Rice **
 * “When I was really, really, lost at walmart, period.” **
 * “When I was really, really, scared and lost at walmart, period.” **
 * “I was really, really, scared and lost at walmart, period. I was lost and couldn’t see my dad anywhere, scary mark!” **
 * “A long time ago, when I was little, my dad and I rode our bikes to walmart. We parked our bikes and locked ‘em to the cart corral near the front and went in those big sliding doors to get washers for the garden hose and Dad let me look at toys while he went to find the washers and pretty soon he didn’t come back so I went to where mom and I get the soap and bubble bath to find him but he wasn’t there and I looked all around and started breathing hard and crying but just a little bit in one eye so then I thought go find my dad at our bikes cause he has to show up there to go home and I waited and waited until a big guy in a uniform with a walkie-talkie came up to me and I was scared cause I thought he was gonna’ arrest me for getting lost but he just said your dad’s been looking for you all over the store and he’s in there looking some more and he took me to my dad. The end” period. **

Kindness Makes the World Go Round By Adrienne Stenholm This I believe: kindness matters. It makes no difference who you are or what profession you practice, something as simple as a smile can make a difference in a person’s day. While today’s lifestyle grows more and more fast-paced, I think people need kindness more than ever. Often people suffering don’t show their pain to the world around them, so random acts of kindness, a smile, or a greeting can make a huge difference without extra effort on anyone’s behalf. As a painfully shy student, moving proved a difficult challenge for me during elementary school. Santa Claus even scared me! How would I make new friends if the big guy who delivered sought after presents on Christmas Eve freaked me out? My family moved to Hot Sulphur Springs, Colorado, during the summer between my second and third grade years of school. We had just gone through an emotional devastation: my youngest brother, Cory, had died. Few images are more depressing than a casket for a two-year-old lowering into the ground on a frigid and rainy November, Kansas day. Mom needed a new start, and maybe Dad did, too. Therefore, we packed up our belongings and moved to someplace we had previously loved to visit, the mountains. We had just started unpacking the boxes in the apartment on our first full day in Hot Sulphur when a knock sounded on the front door. Mom opened it to a bright, smiling face. The little girl introduced herself as Leah and proceeded to note that she had seen the pink bicycle out front and wanted to know if the girl who owned it would like to come out and play. That summer day began the most enduring friendship of my life. I believe God sent her to me because, like me, she also prepared to begin 3rd grade and would ride the same bus I did to the elementary school in Granby. She had enough confidence to talk to perfect strangers, something I could never dream of doing. Since this girl took me under her wing, I met a few more friends before school began, ensuring a happy school life while my home life was falling apart. That awful year my parents divorced. My younger brother, Brett, and I lived with Dad, spending every other weekend with Mom.Leah’s act of kindness and welcoming personality helped me gain a footing in a different home and even helped keep me balanced when everything started going south. During the four years we lived in Colorado, I grew comfortable in my surroundings, gaining more friends, succeeding in school, and preparing for the sports I would get to play. I had plans and dreams! However, after my sixth grade year Dad moved us to Wichita. Despite the promise of more affordable colleges and the proximity to both sets of grandparents, another emotional upheaval followed. We went from seeing Mom every other weekend at the end of a 15-minute drive to seeing her during the summer, spring break, and Christmas holidays following a 45-minute plane trip and a two-hour drive from Denver. Wichita scared me to death. I only knew of it from visiting my grandparents, and the thought of going to school in one of those massive buildings horrified me. All those people! This time no one came to the door to ask me to play before school started. I walked into Mayberry Junior High as a 7th grader with no friends. I can still remember the loneliness and anxiety, looking on as groups of friends gathered to gossip and compare schedules. At least not everyone knew each other because a few different elementary schools filtered into the same building…that made it a little better. I don’t remember how I made these friends, but I found a place in a solid little group who didn’t care that I wasn’t the most coordinated, the prettiest, the richest, the most popular, or the most outgoing person around. Their kindness in accepting me as I was helped me survive the move and grow as a person. Those two moves stick in my memory even now because of the kindness of the people who helped me through the traumatic experiences. I know that I grew tougher due to the separation from Mom and subsequent problems I had at home later in high school, preparing me for the time when I left for college. However, I also remained “a pleaser.” I would do almost anything to avoid intentional rudeness to someone, even a perfect stranger. I say “hi” and/or smile at people I don’t know (I’m still shy, so sometimes I don’t speak); if someone cries, I cry with them. I find it difficult to live in a world where people seem to prize rudeness and selfishness. If I can return the favor and brighten other people’s days when they feel life beating them down, that, in turn, livens my spirits. As a teacher, I have the opportunity to do that for my students, some of whom have tumultuous home situations, so I try to remember that kindness matters when they frustrate me by being 8th graders. As the old saying goes, “What goes around comes around.” Maybe some of those students will carry happy memories to high school and continue the circle.

Writing Is a Stage: A Teaching Metaphor By Adrienne Stenholm In the drama department that is my classroom writing becomes the major production I hope our audience will give rave reviews. Without the show that the students deliver, how would we ever come to know their versions of the old repeated stories of life? As the director, producer, and sometimes financier of this production, I take it upon myself to ensure that my future stars gain a solid foundation in the basics before they perform on the bigger stages of high school and college. Therefore, as a company we rehearse the arts of grammar and punctuation, detail and word choice, sentence structure and variation, paragraphing and organization, introductions and conclusions, and the performing and reviewing process. This practice is the acting drill providing the budding stage performers with self-confidence and star quality. They produce a number of scripts a week, some of which vast audiences will never see, but they hone their crafts and review each other’s performances as often as possible. The performers find their motivation through the writing process. Brainstorming possible ideas for each different type of play presented to them leads to discovering the plot line of their characters’ journeys in writing. Then they rehearse more acting drills by editing this roughest of first performances before returning to the stage and putting changes made into action. They eventually practice for each other at the draft dress rehearsal, letting other performers in the class critique their deliveries while still maintaining their individual characters. Taking those constructive suggestions to heart, they return yet again backstage to rehearse the revision process they’ve come to know so well. With a sense of rising excitement, they don their costumes with their finalized performance and hope to please their audience with the outcome. My role as the director/producer can be taxing at times. How can we fit all we need to rehearse into such a small amount of time before people will be clamoring for tickets to the State Writing Assessment when each student performer is performing a one-person drama alone on center stage? I try to encourage while pointing out chinks in their dramatic masks and make an effort to share my own chinks, as well. No one is perfect….I am still a student performer in my own right. In the end, we cover as much as we can in as detailed a manner as we can without falling off the stage in exhaustion or boredom and maintain a positive, humorous attitude about the whole show. Writing is a stage on which everyone can shine.

A Letter to My Students by Tim Garrels

Dear Student,

I am glad you are in my class this year, and I want you to know some of my beliefs about what is beneficial to your development as a young adult. In particular, I want you to know I believe literacy is an essential part of your development. Being able to navigate the terabytes of information in a thoughtful and meaningful way is critical to being successful in today’s information society (whether or not you decide to attend college or other post-secondary education).

With the goal of making you into a literate, thinking, and fully functional adult, here are some things we will do and build upon in our classroom throughout the course of this class:

1. Being a literate adult means we will read. We will read multiple genres of writing including poetry, short stories, essays, articles, and novels! We will look for good examples of writing for a variety of needs including both personal and academic ones.

2. Being a literate adult also means we will write. We will write //effectively// in multiple formats for multiple audiences including a personal statement of belief, a college admission essay, a literary analysis, research paper, parody, journals, reflective pieces and other creative pieces as we have time. The goal of these writings will be to help you find authentic writing situations. We are going to move away from the “writing for the teacher” mode and instead focus on authentic writing situations.

3. Being a literate adult also means we can make meaning out of text and critically evaluate it. Not all words are created equal and neither are all ideas presented in writing. We will examine writing in light of author’s purpose, historical and social context, as well as how it impacts us, as readers, in today’s society.

4. Becoming a literate adult also means we will pay attention to the inherent processes of writing. We will shift our focus away from “correcting every grammatical error” to writing for our intended audience. We will tell stories. We will pay attention to process with a focus on revision because “every first draft stinks!” according to Roy Wenzel, reporter for the Wichita Eagle, and essentially, “writing is rewriting,” according to Donald Murray, author of //Blue Like Jazz.// We will join the greats who have gone before us in becoming literate adults.

5. In becoming literate adults, we will focus on the atmosphere in which we read and write. Literacy is a collaborative process between reader and author. We will write individually, but we will also have opportunities to share in small and whole group settings. We will explore meaning together as we not only read our own works but also the works of the professionals. We will strive to praise more than we criticize. We will seek to learn.

I promise to be your guide in this journey of literacy with you, to challenge you to reach your full potential, and to assist you in creating meaning out of text. I will be your teacher if you will be my students.

Sincerely, Mr. G

In a world where everything seems more and more commercialized, detached, and concrete, I like to get out, go back to my roots and put some seeds in the ground. Nothing less than astonishing is the sense of accomplishment I feel when viewing the growth of seedlings I planted. My fields may not be traditional Kansas dirt with abundant rain and sunshine, and my seed may not come from Monsanto, but my yields are plentiful and equally satisfying. As the owner of my farm, I don’t like to stick to one type of crop. My crops include: poetry, short stories, novels, literature analysis, nonfiction essays, research papers, projects, vocabulary, grammar, and more. My farmhands like certain crops more than others, but I try to give the customers a variety of choices at the farmer’s market. To that end, my farmhands are required to nurture a variety of crops. Plus, planting the same crop over and over gets boring and is bad for the land. It strips away the nutrients, like taking all the fun out of learning. In order to plant my seeds and watch them grow, I have to have machinery to help me. I use writer’s notebooks to store my seed and computer technology to help enhance my growing methods. I check out the latest writer’s almanac online for best practices and new writing strategies to employ. My tractor of choice is good old pencil and paper. I don’t need any fancy John Deere gadgets to get my work done, but if I can get into the high-tech greenhouse down the road, I will take it! If I can get into the greenhouse, I incorporate different farming techniques to make farming more interesting. These include: glogs, blogs, wordles, google docs, web quests, power points, and photo stories. It takes lots of time and practice to get the yields I desire. My farmhands have to start with a clean field. They need to prepare the field by brainstorming with their plows and discs. Next, those fields are planted with their rough drafts. I have my farmhands fertilize the crops with revision, and spray pesticide with peer editing. I take great pride in my farmhands’ work and nurture and care for their words as they grow into well-developed essays and projects, depending on the seeds they have chosen. Farming can be a scary business. The machinery is dangerous and the other farmhands watch your fields as they grow to see if they are better or worse than yours. As the owner of the farm it is my job to make the farmhands feel safe and respected. He will not want to put his crop in the county fair, if he thinks he will be made fun of. I make sure that will not happen on my farm. Each farmhand needs to know that I want him there and could not be the owner I am without him. If the farmhand feels wanted and respected, he works harder and his yields are higher. I help develop this respect by always reading their writer’s notebooks or grain bins and making comments or giving advice to help them improve their yields. I check their storage bins every two weeks faithfully, so they don’t think they can get by with not doing their chores. They can ask me questions there or tell me what is going on in their lives that might have hindered their crop this season. They always give me positive feedback about this practice and the end of the year review. There is nothing like the feeling of joy you receive when seeing the crop you planted at harvest time. Sure, it is great to see the seeds sprout their tiny heads out of the ground, but the shared elation I feel when a farmhand looks at his final harvest and is beaming with pride makes being the owner of my farm feel worthwhile.
 * Growing by Writing**
 * By Erin McClung**

This I believe…….. By Micki Fryhover

I believe many things to be true. I believe the sun will always shine tomorrow, even if it doesn’t come out and show us it’s there. It may be playing hide and seek behind the clouds, but it is there. Always. I believe in the power of love and forgiveness. Love changes people.Love can move mountains, and as Winona and Naomi Judd have said, “Love can build a bridge.” I believe that two wrongs never make it right, but an honest and sincere effort might. I believe that everything we do, say, and feel matters. We all affect each other with the words we say, and sometimes don’t say; with the things we do, or don’t do; with the action we take, or choose not to take. IT ALL MATTERS. Immensely. It matters more than words can say. The words we use with each other and the words I use with my own children, and the children who are my students, can raise them up or tear them down.All children need words of encouragement as well as words of discouragement.If I want all of these children to be successful, and I do, I must find the balance between the positive and the negative.I must tell them what they do well and nurture those behaviors or ideas.I must encourage them in order to facilitate growth.If what they are doing is detrimental, unhealthy, or just plain unwise (and let’s face it they all do stupid, ridiculous things sometimes!), it is my responsibility to offer feedback, advice or a stern warning in order to help them find their way. Tough love is sometimes just what is needed.Sometimes I’m the only one who seems to care enough about them to give them the things that they need. To love them. I worked in the mental health field for eight years before becoming a certified teacher.I worked with adolescents who had been to hell and back. Kids who had experienced more by the time they were thirteen than many adults ever will in their entire lifetimes.I have worked with suicidal kids and those who self-harm in order to make the pain they feel inside stop, if only for a moment (and, no, the cutters and suicidal kids are NOT the same!).For them, physical pain is much easier to endure than the emotional pain of the heart and mind.These kids needed someone to listen to them without judgment.They needed hugs. Lots and lots of hugs.They needed encouragement to keep moving forward.These kids needed someone to tell them they would be okay, that there was hope for them.They also needed someone to tell them when they were full of crap, but were loved anyway. They needed me to choose my words, responses and actions carefully; I was mindful of the fact that I if I wasn’t careful, unintended consequences could result. I am still mindful of such unintended consequences, but now it’s a different group of young people who need to hear my words.I still work with kids who struggle with crappy home lives and need someone to hear them without judgment.The kids I teach need someone to tell them it’s all going to work out, and they have something important to say.They need someone to remind them that what they say and do truly matters.All of it.They need someone to cut through their crap and get to the heart of the matter, and give them the kick in the pants they sometimes need to get their acts together and, like Larry the Cable Guy says, “Gitter done!”The kids I teach need me to tell them these things.This I know is true.

The Write Diet - A Teacher Metaphor By Sandy Foster Like a blowfish ballooning with air and releasing it again, my waistline has expanded and deflated with each passing fad diet. But finally, I believe I have found the right combination to any dieter’s dilemma, and surprisingly, the same strategies apply to the teaching of writing. If you adhere to the following wellness plan, your writing will improve as markedly as your physique. Selecting a sustainable weight loss plan takes a great deal of honest reflection. For example, am I a stress eater? Do I eat from boredom? Is portion control my issue? Do I exercise regularly? Each of these questions equally applies to writing: Do I only write under duress when required? Do I write out of boredom of the topic, and thus, become lazy in my writing? Do I become overwhelmed with the amount of writing and avoid it altogether? Do I write regularly, or only for a class assignment? Since we didn’t put on these pounds overnight, taking them off will not happen overnight, either. Neither will learning to write well. Eating well at only one meal a day but reverting to bad eating habits the rest of the day merely sabotages a weight-loss plan. Good habits cannot be formed in that manner. Likewise, writing well only for English class but reverting to poor writing habits for every other class, and being allowed to do so, sabotages excellent writing skills. Learning to eat tiny portions five or six times a day regulates your metabolism and maintains equilibrium with blood sugar. Writing in multiple content areas, genres, and forms similarly maintains a steady writing diet conducive to habit-forming practices of deeper level thinking as well as writing excellence. We’ve all been schooled in the foods we should eat. But knowing it and practicing it are two very different things. A healthy diet must begin with fresh ingredients in the right combinations. An essay, too, should begin with a fresh idea. The lean meat and fresh fruits and vegetables that become the staple of healthful eating become synonymous with the meat, or content of a well-written essay, complete with the vegetable equivalents of style, voice and audience awareness. Portion control absolutely must rule any healthful eating plan. Without it, even healthy foods will slow your weight-loss progress. If the diet calls for six ounces of grilled chicken, don’t assume more of a good thing is better; a twenty-four-ounce portion of grilled chicken will definitely not produce the desired result. Portion control in writing works much the same. Good writing is concise, saying just enough without becoming long-winded. A male chauvinist college professor once advised his students on essay length: like a mini-skirt -- long enough to cover the topic, yet short enough to create interest. His comments then, during the age of Aquarius and women’s rights, drew ire from the females in the class, but made his point. Regular exercise supplements any weight loss plan. Caloric intake equal to energy output will enable one to maintain the desired weight. Of course, an exercise buddy or weight loss mentor adds an element of accountability to the plan. When you know that walking buddy is waiting on the corner at 6:00 a.m. for your scheduled walk, you are more likely to tie those running shoes and walk out the door. In the same way, having a writing mentor to encourage and offer advice or admonition creates a sense of accountability to writing improvement. A healthy diet while exercising is not complete without plenty of fluid intake. Eight 8-ounce glasses of water per day will keep you hydrated and will wash the toxins out of your body. Those toxic errors in our writing must also be eliminated which will help move the writer toward a polished piece, for which he feels a great accomplishment. It is this sense of accomplishment in writing that is equal to reaching one’s goal weight. Much effort is required, but the results are something to celebrate.

How I Became a Literate Being By Erin McClung Reading has always been a part of my life. As I child, my mother often read to my sisters and me. I remember the adventures of the //Berenstain Bears//, //Sam and the Firefly//, and countless other characters. We read certain books for different holidays. //The Country Bunny and the Little Gold Shoes// for Easter, //The Spooky Old Tree// for Halloween, and the holidays brought //The Night Before Christmas//. Reading was not just at my own home, but also at the homes of both sets of my grandparents. My grandmother told stories of old farming accidents, the Great Depression, and explanations of scrapbooks dating back to the late 1800’s. My grandma’s house contained a special pile of books in the magical reading corner, and my sisters and I would take turns picking out books to have my grandma or grandpa read to us. Their house was full of books because my grandpa loved reading, and it was rare that he didn’t have a book in his hand or on the table next to his chair. As I grew older the most influential person in my life became my older sister, Shannon. Shannon loved to read. She read books that were too hard for me, but I wanted to be like her so I attempted to read them anyway. On days where she didn’t find me quite as annoying as others, we would sit next to the wood burning stove, the only heat source in our farmhouse, and she would read to me from her chapter books. This was the first time I discovered the power of books. When she read //Wait Till Helen Comes//, which is a story of a young girl ghost who haunts a family, it scared me so much, that I had nightmares about Helen for years. She still shows up in my dreams from time to time. Being that affected by what Shannon read to me, led me to start choosing my own books to read. My parents were no Hiltons, but one thing my mother and father made sure of was that we would not lack materials to enhance our education. While in grade school, my teachers would send out a monthly book sale flyer. I could pick out any five books I wanted and I began to discover how much I enjoyed reading. I became addicted to //The Boxcar Children, Sweet Valley High// and //The Baby Sitters Club//. . I remember reading //The Bridge to Terribitha// in fifth grade and bawling my eyes out. My friends looked at me like I was crazy, but I just couldn’t understand how they weren’t crying. Why didn’t they feel what I felt? By the time I discovered my love for books, my affair for story telling was already underway. As the middle child I needed to do something to have people pay attention to me. In school I enjoyed assignments that allowed me to be creative. When my school put up a new mirror in the “secret” hallway, they held a completion for a quote to print above the mirror. My second grade phrase, “You are looking at the future!” beat out the fifth graders that entered the contest. The feeling of accomplishment that I received inspired me to think that I did have valuable ideas to share, and it gave me the self-confidence to not be afraid to share them. I liked to make up stories, songs, poems, and plays. I even took the writing to another level by forcing my little sisters to act out my ideas. The home videos haunt me to this day. In middle school, suddenly my literate life took quite a blow. It was extremely important to fit in and be cool, and for whatever reason, reading and writing did not put people in the cool crowd. Sure I read in class, but I wasn’t going to spend my time reading at home, when I could be on the phone working on my social status. During high school, my love for reading and writing came back. I was no longer that concerned about what people thought of me, and reading and writing was fun, so I found myself reading plays and poetry to help “find me,” and writing in a journal to express my thoughts on the hormone filled world of puberty. Did I mention I also found theater and drama during high school? That also helped fuel my fire for reading. How could I understand all of the literary references in the plays, without reading the literature? As a child, I knew from the moment I set my little sisters down in front of me and I played teacher what I should be. However, the constant chanting of “you won’t make any money,” deterred my dream for some time. In college, my love for the fine arts directed me to singing, dancing, and acting which helped me pay for school. Due to my busy schedule, I read for the sake of knowledge and rarely found time to read for fun. I wrote school assignments and enjoyed those, but rarely found time to write for myself. By the time I realized I wanted to give in and do what my heart desired and be a teacher, my love for literature and writing solidified my desire to choose English as my area of specialty. My dream as a child might not have been to be an English teacher, but in reality it was the profession I was destined for.

By Sandy Foster
 * This I Believe**

St. Francis of Assisi once said, “It takes only one sunbeam to chase away a shadow.” Even a child understands the literal meaning of this quotation. Figuratively speaking, however, one must have experienced some shadowy periods in life, and the subsequent people or events that enabled one to see the light at the end of the tunnel in order to fully understand the meaning of this phrase. As someone who attended Sunday school and church weekly as a child, I learned early the song "This Little Light of Mine" and eventually made the connection that the light of the SON could shine through me. Later still, I memorized John 12:46: "I have come into the world as a light so that no one who believes in me should stay in darkness." My faith has been a guiding force for as long as I can remember. During my lifetime, many people illuminated my pathway on my occasional walks through the shadowy valleys. When my husband contracted chicken pox at 35, and with it, varicella pneumonia, my church group began a prayer chain before he was even loaded onto the Lifewatch helicopter. Hours of agony passed as I worried about how I would ever raise four children on my own if he didn’t make it. I knew many prayers were being sent heavenward on his behalf, but it wasn’t until I finally took time to breathe a prayer of my own that I felt immediate peace and knew that he was going to be all right. Within the hour of my prayer, he became stabilized, but the physical danger lingered much longer than I had ever anticipated. Still, in my heart, I knew he would eventually come home. Seventeen days later he did. One weekend early in my teaching career, one of my seventh graders took his life. Having spent the weekend out of town, I learned about it on Monday morning when the principal called a brief faculty meeting to inform those of us who had not received the news. Facing my first class with that empty seat and the knowledge that Jason's face and voice would never fill that seat again was a challenge. What words could I say to begin class, knowing full well my own words would be choked with emotion? I did the only thing I knew how. I informed the class of his death, and told them we would begin class with a few moments of silence in his memory. Those who wanted could say a silent prayer. How inadequate that seemed, but it allowed us to make it through that day, and each subsequent day became a little easier. In December of 2000, Jonathan and Reginald Carr unleashed their murderous rampage on five innocent victims in Wichita, Kansas. One of those victims, Jason Befort, was a former student of mine. I had close connections to many of his family members through church and 4-H. The immediate weeks and months following the murders was a truly dark time, a deep valley from which some family members seemed forever lost, especially once the trials began and they were forced to relive the excruciating details of that night in a snowy soccer field. Even people of faith are tested to their very limits, and questioning God's purpose became like a mantra. Reading and rereading the book of Job and daily prayers eventually helped illuminate the path back to faith. My darkest walk in the valley took place during the 2001-2002 school year. Of course, 9/11 affected us all, some more personally, and all of us politically. Then in December of that year, I received news that my only brother had been killed in an elevator accident. The pain of this loss seemed unbearable. Almost one month to the date of his death, my mother had a massive heart attack, leaving her near death and quite weak for months. Our methods of grieving are as individual as the number of people who grieve, and my weekly visits to the cemetery and monthly flower deliveries were comforting to me. I found peace and solace there, knowing in my heart Tom was not there, but still feeling a sense of closeness as I updated him regarding my mother's condition and other family matters. Despite well-meaning acquaintances who told me I was lingering too long in mourning, I continued this ritual, gradually decreasing the weekly visits to monthly, until the pain of his death rescinded into memories. Surrounded by my church family and compassionate friends who understood my relationships with my brother and my mother, I climbed out of my dark dungeon of depression with their enlightening words of comfort and found a brighter outlook. Eventually I could speak of him without dissolving into sobs, and gradually, my pathway began to brighten. It is being the recipient of light through these human Sonbeams that I have grown in my faith and become more knowledgeable in scripture to be able now to shed light where shadows threaten. We can learn from and become stronger through adversity if we but allow His light to show us the path to follow. God gave me the strength to offer comfort and support at the bedside of a friend whose terminal illness took him far too soon from his family. He died peacefully, surrounded by family holding his hands, his wife quietly reading his favorite scriptures, and me keeping his grandson occupied. While I went to the house to be a source of comfort for the family, I received a blessing of my own. Given the choice, this is exactly how I want to go out of this world, surrounded by family, peaceful music playing softly in the background, and my favorite scriptures being read. When my teenage son flipped a pickup end-over-end in the early morning hours one Sunday morning, fear and anxiety gripped my soul. When the immediate crisis had abated with the knowledge that he was not seriously hurt, I gave thanks to God for the teachable moment that allowed my son to recognize he had been given a second chance at life and must make the most of it. I praise Him daily for sparing my son's life so that he would later find his soulmate, marry, and begin a family of his own. When my own daughter miscarried, not once but twice, I comforted her in the only way I knew how, through verses from the book of Job and through prayer. My words may very well have fallen on deaf ears during this time of grief, yet God’s word cannot be refuted. He gave me the words to offer her, and she found her way past the grief and into a stronger person who later bore two more children. Not all people are willing or ready to leave their individual shadows, but I have learned to seek the light and to surround myself with other beams of light, ready to shine wherever shadows threaten. I have come to understand that to the world, I am just one person, but to one person, I may just be the Sonbeam that allows that one person to experience light again in their world.

A Journey of Personal Literacy By Tim Garrels

“AHHHH!!! YOU TURNED THE PAGE!!!” There is one book I distinctly remember from childhood. In it Grover, a character from Sesame Street, told a story about a monster approaching the end of the book, and with each turn of the page, the words became more emphatic, “AHHHH!!! YOU TURNED THE PAGE!!! PLEASE DON’T TURN THE PAGE!!!” The words on the page alone weren’t nearly as memorable, though, as the words coming from my father’s voice who so confidently belted them out to the delight of me and my two younger brothers.

It was story time, and Dad had us enraptured in the art of storytelling. A busy man to be sure, but when he was young it seemed like he often had time for us. And besides the wrestling games and the countless hours of watching Dr. Who and the various nature shows that were available to us on one of our four TV channels, he would also take time to be with us and even read to us.

The story told by Grover about an impending monster waiting at the end of the book is perhaps a good metaphor for my journey of self-discovery into being a literate person. Reading – and reading well – can at times seem like tackling a monster in a technologically driven age in which it is much easier to watch a television show or movie than to slowly digest the words and images cranking out before my eyes and transcending the neural pathways into the inner cortexes of meaning within my brain. However, the challenges reading (and for that matter, literacy in general) may entail for the modern techno-savvy reader is a journey well worth taking.

And while my literacy journey began with my father (and to be fair my mother as well), it progressed in several stages. Initially, I learned the alphabet and basic sentences in kindergarten, and then moved on to short stories and elementary novels in the early grades. In particular, I remember Mrs. Carney, my first and second grade teacher, who taught multiple grade levels in the same room, but somehow managed to create one of the most fun classes ever. From her, I learned about the importance of fluency as we had speed reading competitions amongst our peers to see who could read the fastest. It was all in good fun.

From Mrs. Carney, I also learned the amazing wonders of the bucko system. Every week we would have weekly spelling tests and for every word spelled correctly we would earn a bucko. Towards the end of the year, we bought things from the bucko store, such as candy, G.I. Joes, transformers and other 1980’s relics. It was great fun. Another thing that Mrs. Carney taught me was basic bible literacy. We went through the entire bible and created our own condensed version within a year’s time.

My parents and Mrs. Carney helped form the foundation of my basic literacy; but it wouldn’t be until my junior year of high school that I truly became a literate person. Why the gap? I think it had a large part to do with my lack of interest and continual relocation from one school to the next. I had a difficult time connecting with schools and teachers when I always had to move. However, I always did the assigned reading and continued to meet what would probably be termed “proficient” in today’s testing society.

But then, something magical happened during my junior year of high school. I met Mrs. Polly Welsh. She was a lively character and brought a fresh taste to literature. She not only asked me to read novel after novel after novel; but she also challenged me to think critically about what I was reading. Hardly a class would go by without her asking us, “Who was not included in early American literature?. That’s right. Women,” she would say. She did not stand for conventional norms and would often tackle controversy head on. It wasn’t enough to read //The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn// and casually address the use of “nigger” in the text. We had to explore the controversy around it – no easy task in a predominately white suburban school. Then, to add to the discussion of race (and to my disgust at the time), we read //Beloved// by Toni Morrison. I was flabbergasted at the content. How could a mother kill her own child? Yet, it was through this novel (which I have later learned to love) that I have realized the wisdom she brought to the class. Text often requires critical thought to fully flesh out its possible meanings.

Since high school, I have continued in my journey of being a literate person. I have earned two bachelor’s degrees and am now working on a Master’s in English. Some would say I am overeducated, but I would like to think of myself as a life-long learner. Yet, the number of degrees is not so important to me as the tools which I continue to build upon and acquire through my own learning – namely literacy skills which I define as being able to read, write and think critically about text.

Literacy does not stop. It didn’t stop after I was four and reading along with my dad, and neither did it stop in high school – or for that matter college. Rather, my development into becoming a literate person continues to this day as I continue to enjoy the privilege of reading, writing and thinking critically about text and the other quickly developing modes of digital literacy in a technological age. And to my delight, I now have the privilege of partaking in my student’s journeys. Some struggle with basic competencies while others need a constant challenge, yet all continue in some way on the journey that is literacy – and for that I am delighted to walk with them during their high school years.

This I Believe – Dreams By Tim Garrels

For most of my life, I have lived what some might consider the American Dream. I grew up in a supportive family, attended church, and helped my father build a successful food service business. I had shelter, food and clothing. I even went to college, traveled the globe, got married and was a father to a wonderful step-daughter. Therefore, I can’t really say I was deprived or even without goals. However, as with some dreams, they can eventually end, and mine was no exception.

About two years ago, my life started to change. My father, who I had respected while growing up, began to change. He stopped caring about me and about his work. His gambling addiction translated into the demise of his hard-earned business. He stopped working, and he stopped being a member of my family. He stopped caring. With his absence, my family crumbled. What had slowly been happening for years now culminated with a stroke of a pen—my parents divorced, and my family was forever changed.

If that wasn’t enough hardship, I suffered my own divorce about the same time my parents went through theirs. I should have known it was coming because my marriage was filled with conflict and strife from the beginning. However, it wasn’t easy leaving my step-daughter. I didn’t want to give up on my marriage and lose the family that I had helped to create. No one really sets out to get divorced, but like my parents, I quickly found myself as a recent addition in the “ex” category. My dream of creating a family and having a house with the proverbial “white picket fence” went up in flames.

Dreams. Sometimes they shatter like glass, but they are not forever undone. Just as individual shards of glass can be heated to form beautiful vases and sculptures, dreams can also be broken and re-shaped to become something even more beautiful than its intended original.

I believe that God is reshaping my life into something grand, and even though I am still working through my “issues,” I know what ultimately awaits me in the future is the light of heaven shining through a beautiful piece of stained glass – each frame depicting a time in my life when my dreams were shattered and then reborn.

I believe that God gives and takes away, but he ultimately has the best dream for us – plans to prosper us and not to harm us. – //Jeremiah 29:11//

The Life Shaping Experiences of Literacy By Micki Fryhover

My journey toward literacy began when I was very young.It begins with Max and the famous line, “Let the wild rumpus start!” I remember listening to my favorite story //Where the Wild Things Are// and classic Dr. Seuss: “I will not eat them, Sam I am. I do not like green eggs and ham!” I remember listening to stories my grandmother told of her growing up during the Great Depression. She also told stories about raising her large family on her own while my grandfather was overseas during World War II.These were some of the most difficult times for my Grandmother. I remember my father reading to me, although I only hear faint whispers of these voices now because they have been replaced by my own as I read to my own children and to my students.

Growing up, we never had book cases in my house.Well, that’s not true.We had them, they were just called knick-knack shelves, but there were always books in the house.They were in stacks and didn’t seem to warrant enough importance to be prominently displayed like the knick-knacks.My mom was usually reading some trashy Harlequin Romance or a novel by Stephen King. I read //Salem’s Lot// when I was twelve and had nightmares for weeks, but I loved scary stories. As I was thinking about this time in my life, I remembered a book report I did in the eighth grade using //The Exorcist//.I’m surprised my mother didn’t get a phone call about that book report.It wouldn’t have resulted in any disciplinary action because she was the one who gave it to me to read!My eight year old daughter loves scary stories, too—but I only let her read //Goosebumps// or other “scary” stories that are written for young readers. No Stephen King for her! All of my children are readers, especially my girls, who read incessantly!And in case you are wondering, I grew out of my horror story phase many, many years ago!

I really don’t remember the process of learning to read—it just seems to me that I’ve been reading my whole life. I probably started reading for fun around second grade. I remember reading Encyclopedia Brown and the Boxcar Children. As I got a little older and entered middle school, I read all things Judy Blume and Beverly Cleary. I could see myself in these stories, and they were my favorites, especially Judy Blume. She is a writing genius, and I didn’t just read her books, I devoured them! //Are You there God? It’s Me, Margaret, Tiger Eyes,// and the //Pistachio Prescription// are still with me today. I am absolutely convinced that my love for pistachios stems from Judy Blume. True story.I loved reading—it was my refuge, it helped me escape a home-life that was not always pleasant. My home-life absolutely sucked sometimes. I lived with an abusive alcoholic step-father and a mother who nearly worked herself to death in order to keep food on the table and a roof over our heads because her bum husband wouldn’t. Reading, and later writing, saved my life. I was able to delve into other people’s lives and escape my own. I was able to write about my pain instead of drowning it with alcohol or drugs like some kids I knew. I was able to work through it, rather than run from it or worse…

In high school, my College Prep English teacher, Mrs. Preston, was probably the most influential and made the biggest impact on me as a person, as a student, as a writer, and as a teacher.Mrs. Preston had high expectations of her students and had a way of making me feel like she expected just a little bit more from me than she did the others.She was like that little voice inside my head that pushed me to do better; I never wanted to disappoint her.I wanted so much to please her and, in the process, I sincerely strived to do better than I ever thought I could.

Mrs. Preston would not accept anything less than my best efforts. She believed in my abilities to write well and to think.She showed me that I actually had a talent for writing and helped me cultivate that talent with her encouragement, feedback, and advice.When I would feel frustrated with my writing she would tell me, “Write what you know” or she would say, “Connect with your words and your words won’t fail you.”I think it was at this point when I began to realize I was a literate being. My words had power. They held the power to help me express myself, and the power to make the reader feel what I was feeling.

I wrote a short story my junior year about a sixteen year old girl and her step-father, who was celebrating his third year of sobriety.The story was semi-autobiographical, but mostly fabricated.It was what I wished for, and what I wanted so desperately to be my reality.I also wrote poems and fell in love with writing haiku.I wrote and submitted three haiku poems my junior year to our literary magazine and two of my poems were selected for publication.Unfortunately, I didn’t know any of my work had been published until about fifteen years later.I didn’t have enough confidence in my own writing to follow up and find out if any of my work had been selected.I would have never taken the risk in the first place had Mrs. Preston not encouraged me.As a teacher, I want to pass on the legacy Mrs. Preston left me to my students.I want to be that voice inside my students’ heads that pushes them to do better.

The advice Mrs. Preston gave stills resonates within me and I feel those words of advice more strongly than ever as I’m becoming, once again, in touch with who I am as a writer and as a teacher of writing.I began work on my Masters in English this spring. I looked at my writing habits, closely examining my writing processes and rituals.I had “forgotten” that writing really had a process because mine had become so automatic that I had all but disconnected from it.My pre-writing process was virtually non-existent; I would just sit down and start writing.Because I write all my papers either on my laptop or a desktop computer, I would revise as I wrote. I would never print a single copy until I was “finished” and was ready to turn it in.This was probably due, in part, as a result of writing about things I really didn’t care much about or feel connected to.I was more concerned about the grade I would receive, and that was where I would put my energy and focus.I had lost touch with the writer who I had worked so hard to nurture in high school and left her behind, floundering and bewildered as I churned out work that didn’t matter beyond the grade received.

I realized that I had tailored my writing toward my teacher’s preferences rather than looking at my work and discovering how I could improve it.Although I am still concerned about my grades because grades do matter, I am just as concerned about making my work the best I can make it.The focus of my work has shifted to include the various stages of writing.I take more time and actually utilize a “prewriting” phase, writing down my ideas and think about //what// I want to say, and //how// I want to say it.As a result, I am more focused and I am doing less floundering when I sit down to pull everything together because I have taken the time to create a plan for what I want my work to include.I have also learned to look at revision as an opportunity to refine my work and I have rediscovered the joy of finding the perfect word to express what it is I want to convey.

This learning experience is really rather exciting for me because I remember what it’s like to be a student who is just discovering the power of writing, and the power of my own words.I have re-discovered the love I have for writing and will continue working to further facilitate my personal growth as a writer.I feel like I finally realize the full magnitude of what my literacy means—it means I have not only the power to help young people learn to nurture and channel their own inner writer, but I also have the tools, desire, and passion to make it happen. While the focus of my “wild rumpus” has shifted slightly from discovering the joys of reading to embracing the joys of writing, one thing remains unchanged.I am finally a fully functioning, literate being!!

How I Learned the Difference Between Fiction and Nonfiction By Patrice Hein

Growing up, books were everywhere in my house. Education was a priority for our parents, so my siblings and I had access to all of the latest Dr. Seuss tomes, a new National Geographic magazine each month, as well as several sets of encyclopedias - some with lots of colorful pictures just for kids and some with many blocks of words printed on extremely thin paper. Since I was the youngest of four children, my older siblings read to me often and liked to play "school" with me as the pupil. As my mother tells it, I was four years old, sitting in the kitchen while she talked with someone on the phone about a new perfume and I interrupted to spell P-E-R-F-U-M-E, which led to my parents deciding it was time for me to go to school. I became a kindergartener that August at Clark Elementary, just down the street. Maybe because I was so young, but I suspect due to genetics, I was very quiet. At the end of the first week of school, my mother received a note from Mrs. Klotz, the kindergarten teacher, which said, "Mrs. Dunn, you should have told us your daughter was mute." Or something to that effect. I was extremely shy. I complied with all requests made of me at school, I nodded my head "yes", or shook, "no," but I would not speak. I did like to write. I liked the curves of the letter S. I made big, pregnant-looking Ps. While my classmates wrote cap, lap, map, rap, tap. I wrote, "I made a map to find my cap, but then I found it in my lap." I think I was just trying to jazz it up a little. The next year, set to join my siblings who attended Catholic school, I was not allowed into first grade because I wasn't old enough, so I had to do kindergarten all over again. My brother told everyone I flunked kindergarten - he still tells people that. In third grade I learned the difference between fiction and non-fiction. Our teacher, Sister Charlene, instructed us to write a story from our imaginations. She told us this would be a work of fiction. It could have monsters or fairies or anything we wanted in it. Mine was about mean trolls, a cave filled with jewels and a brave heroine who looked just like me. Most kids wrote a page or two. Mine was nine pages. Next, Sister Charlene instructed us to write a true story. She told us this was called non-fiction. It could be about someone famous or someone we knew. It could be about an historical event or a family event. “It must be true, and try to make it interesting,” she growled. As my eight-year-old mind scrolled through a parade of what I considered interesting events and people in my life, I settled on something that I thought would sufficiently amuse Sister Charlene. I eagerly began writing about how my mom carried my little sister around the house in her pocket. I told about how busy my mom was, with the cleaning, cooking, laundry, etc. and so, one day, she put my little baby sister in her pocket when her hands were just too full. It was a good story, but not nearly as fun to write as the one about jewels and trolls, so it was only two pages long. Much to my dismay, Sister Charlene called me up to her desk the next day and in a stern voice repeated her instructions that we were to write a true story. My assertions that this was a completely, absolutely, true story were met with a wrath that only a woman cloaked in black and white from head to toe, and who regularly carried a long “pointer” can exhibit. Sister Charlene informed me that I would stay in from recess until I agreed that this story was fiction. So there I sat, feeling confused and dejected while my classmates headed out to play. At the end of the day Sister Charlene gave me one more chance to change my answer. It occurred to me that I might just ask if I could write about my summer vacation instead, but Sister Charlene was not one to back down from a battle of wills. She even seemed to relish the challenge. I think she smiled a little smirky smile when I tearfully repeated my answer one more time. “All right, young lady, march down to the office and call your mother to tell her you will be staying after school today for lying to me.” Most kids would have dreaded having to make such a call, but all I could think about on my way down the long, shiny hallway was, “Sister Charlene is gonna be in sooo much trouble.” As the last bell sounded, kids bolted from their seats and scurried out the door. Now it was just Sister Charlene and me and a ticking clock I had never noticed before. Suddenly a loud BANG of the outside door made me jump. Sister Charlene didn’t look up from grading papers, but I thought I detected that little smirk again. The click-click-click of my mother’s shoes in the empty hallway was rapid and determined. I put my head down because I knew something explosive was about to happen. No pleasantries were exchanged when she came into the room. Mom simply said, "Sister, I’m Patrice’s mother. This is her baby sister." She ceremoniously dropped the baby into one of the giant pockets on her big blue culottes and said, “Don’t ever call my daughter a liar again.” She took my hand and wheeled around with me in tow, my sister bobbing along in her pocket. And that’s how I learned the difference between fiction and non-fiction.

The Bookworm by Karen Whaley Creating a bookworm requires many small steps. Begin with a small child.Build vocabulary in the child by talking to the child as you would any other adult. Some people believe this communication begins before the child is born though walking through the store and asking the child growing inside of you if he wants chunky or creamy peanut butter is often frowned upon by the little old lady walking down the aisle next to you.Avoid baby talk as much as possible to build trust and positive communication. There is a time and place for different conversation styles and playtime can be open to any kind of playing with words and intonations. Growing through the toddler years the bookworm learns more words by using picture books. After showing the child what different pictures and naming them “What’s this?” the parent asks. The child responds, “Kitty!” to pictures of cats. The process is repeated with other animals and objects. Praising each of the child’s victory over the addition to their vocabulary creates interest. Little by little the bookworm is growing into a lover of words and books. Now around 5 years old, the bookworm is in Kindergarten. Learning more words and written words through rhyming words, color words, and phonetically sounding out words enhances what the child is acquiring. Throughout the elementary school years the student learns reading and writing through a variety of teaching styles and strategies. By this time students often have favorite authors and book genres. Writing in a journal for school assignments may have transferred to having a diary. By the middle school years a butterfly is emerging from the bookworm and the beauty and power of reading and writing is coming out of the cocoon of language.The bookworm has a collection of books on their shelves and visits the school library on assigned days and often other times for their favorites. While there is an emphasis on reading, without writing the reading would not complete the learning process. Teaching my children how to talk, walk, and think surely must be similar to how I learned to become a literate person as a child. I remember distinctly how I became a writer. A friend moved away and we shared letters from time to time. Mine are long and almost novelettes. Hers are short and sweetalways ending with “Love and Like, Laurie.” We have a bond that has not been broken throughout the decades we have known each other. She told me she loved getting my letters because it was like having a conversation with me and she felt a part of my life. I still write my long informative letters and she sometimes remembers to send a note in response.

Opportunities to Create Writing by Karen Whaley

Creative writing is a passion. Allowing students time to create their own stories conflicts with preparing for state assessments.As an electives teacher of classes pertaining to skills necessary for survival in the real world, fortune smiled upon me in requiringme to encourage higher level thinking skills through creative writing. Beginning in sixth grade, students learn to write sentences in their weekly journals and basic reflection paragraphs. Seventh graders enhance writing skills by creating an itinerary and creating the written story from events from an outline of events. Eighth graders have been my students for the two previous years. They are eager to imagine their futures through researching careers and simulating personal stories with personal finance skills. Students in my classroom write using different methods. They write daily journal entries. They write reflections of stories I read to them such as __A Child Called It__ by David Pelzer, a story of surviving child abuse. Daily newspaper articles often supply stories students use to write opinion paragraphs. One example I chose to read was about helicopter parents.”Helicopter parents hover over their children in all aspects of their lives many times through the college years and beyond.” After students wrote, we shared opinions and debated each side of the issue.What is the difference between a helicopter parent and a protective parent? Students never cease to amaze and inspire me with their responses. Student demonstrate creativity and writing for many different purposes throughout each quarter of the school year. Students with a desire to write creatively for their own purposes have requested time to work on personal creative pieces. Talented storytellers, male and female, have asked, “Mrs. Whaley, can I work on a story I am writing about…?”My class schedule design allows students five minutes at the end of the class period for free time provided they have work for the class completed. Students possessing excellent research skills will have extra time to work on personal writing after completing work that the majority of the class needs more time to complete. Allowing students time to write their own short stories and in different genres can only serve to inspire students to become the next Steven King or great song writer. I am a facilitator of learning. Allowing student to create and form educated opinions based on individual beliefs and research, encourages students to become independent learners.This meets our district goal of creating lifelong learning skills. Allowing my students time to develop their creative writing skills keeps their passion for writing alive and growing. Teaching all three grade levels in the middle school allows me the pleasure of observing student growth and learning.

At What Cost? Patrice Hein

I believe in global warming. I believe that many human activities adversely affect the planet’s natural processes, its air, water, and soil, and are changing the Earth’s climate. I believe that we are just now beginning to pay the price of human greed, ignorance and exploitation of resources. Our planet is resilient, but humans’ ability to alter the environment on a grand scale, to pour toxins into the air and water, to add chemicals to the soil, all result in far reaching and unintended effects. Our drive for immediate gratification, for bigger, better, for more and more and more comes at a high cost. We want our favorite fruits and vegetables to be available year 'round. We want higher yields in the wheat fields and on the ranch lands. We want more shopping malls so we can spend our resources on more stuff. We want big houses with high ceilings. It doesn’t matter how much it costs to heat and cool them – we can afford it. We want big cars. It doesn’t matter how much it costs to drive them – we can afford it. We want neatly trimmed green lawns no matter how much water and fertilizer and pesticides and fossil fuel it takes. But can we afford it? Perhaps we should look at the true cost of our modern, convenience-driven lives. What price do we put on clean air and water? What price do we put on human lives lost in wars over fossil fuel? What price do we put on our health and the health of generations to come? What price do we pay for the image of perfection? When I was a young girl, I picked a pear from my grandfather’s tree. It had a worm in it. My grandfather took his pocketknife, cut out a chunk of the pear, worm included, and tossed it into his compost pile. “The worm’s got to eat, too,” he said. I ate my share of the delicious fruit. Today, most of the pears consumers buy at the store have been sprayed with insecticides so that they are shiny and perfect. They’re coated in toxins, but don’t they look nice? I believe I’d much rather eat a worm.